Murder of Angels by Caitlin R. Kiernan

Author:Caitlin R. Kiernan [Kiernan, Caitlin R.]
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780451459961
Published: 2010-02-19T12:00:00+00:00

C H A P T E R S E V E N

Snakes and Ladders

I’m going to fall forever, Daria thinks. I’m never going to

hit the water, but then she does, and it’s like hitting a

brick wall. Not what she expected, but then few things ever

are, and at least the pain only lasts an instant, less than an

instant, as the cold waters of the bay close mercifully

around her shattered bones and bruised flesh, accepting

her, promising that there’s nothing left to fear. Nothing

ahead that’s half so terrible as all the trials laid out behind

her; she wants to believe that more than she’s ever wanted

to believe anything.

And she’s certain this is real, because no one ever dies in

dreams. If it were only a dream, she thinks, she’d have

awakened in that final, irredeemable second before the

long fall ended. That’s what she’s always heard, and she’s

never died in a dream. No one dies in dreams.

In another moment, you will not even feel the cold, the

ocean whispers, as the southbound currents wrap kelpslick tendrils about her broken legs and pull her down

and down and down. Drawing her towards the black and

silty bottom, away from the comfortless oyster light of

the moon shining so bright that she can still see it

through the shimmering, retreating surface of the bay.

The light at the end of the tunnel, near-death or afterlife

cliché, but she has no use for light anymore, and she’s

210

Caitlín R. Kiernan

grateful that soon the moon and the sun and all light will

be lost to her forever.

Was it like this for you? she asks, and the shadows

swarming thick through the water around her sigh and

murmur a thousand conflicting answers. So she takes her

pick, choosing at random because she can’t imagine that

choices still matter. No, Niki whispers. It’s different for

everyone.

Daria stares up at the rippling moon growing small,

hardly a decent saucer now when a moment ago it was a

dinner plate, and she tries hard to remember if she’s sinking or rising, if she’s getting farther from the moon or it’s

getting farther away from her. That doesn’t matter, either,

the bay reassures her. Don’t even think about it, and so she

doesn’t. She can see the inky cloud of blood leading back

the way she’s come, a blood road back to the moon, but

Daria knows the bay will take care of that, as well, and

soon there will be no evidence whatsoever of her passage.

A loose school of surfperch sweep hurriedly past, their

mirror scales flashing the moonlight because they have no

light of their own, and Daria knows exactly how that feels.

Never any light but what she stole, never her own soul for

a lantern, but only for cloudy days and shuttered rooms,

closets and nights without stars.

That girl in Florida, the moon calls down to her with its

silken, accusing voice. Old Becky What’s-her-name. You

think that’s the way she felt? You think that’s what she heard

when she listened to your songs? And then it begins to

whistle the melody of “Seldom Seen.”

You leave me alone, Daria calls back at the moon. I’m

going down to Niki. It’s not my problem anymore.

The moon stops whistling, and Ohhh, it purrs, pretending to sound surprised.

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